the daughter of my mother
sleeps inside my chest.
murmurs in her sleep
"i could do it better, i could be loved for it"

                      my mother loves her daughter.

it's hard, letting her go
my home of many years
no matter how uncomfortable the bed was
how cold the rooms
i lived in her
was loved in her

sometimes i take her out
drag her out of my soul like old laundry
like nostalgia, like a party dress
i slip, quietly, into her skin
wear her face, her family.
she doesn't fit right.

the daughter of my mother
is coated in broken glass on the inside
but as her
i can do it better, i can be loved for it

                      my mother loves her daughter.
.